Volatility
by Muri Karma
Summary: Harry/Draco. AU seventh year, canon compliant until then. Another story where Draco joins Harry on the Horcrux hunt, hopefully entertaining. May contain nuts, sarcasm and UST.
1. Chapter 1

A.N.: Hello, just a few notes before you start reading. This is hopefully going to be a long, multi-chaptered fic, set in seventh year and canon compliant up until then. It will eventually be slash, but it will also be plot, or at least character analysis. This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, so I would really appreciate any feedback - if there are characters acting ooc for instance. Also, I own nothing. Not even shoes. Definitely not Harry and co.

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

If Harry knew the term 'pathetic fallacy', he might well have used it as he looked around the barren, desolate landscape, the sky a stormy mass of grey clouds hanging heavily above, from which the rain poured incessantly, the wind howling like an animal in pain and tearing at his hair and clothes as if in anguish. Instead he thought: well, that pretty much sums it up.

It was the fifth of September and by all rights he should be waiting on platform 9 ¾'s, his luggage beside him, ready to get on the Hogwarts Express and return to the castle that was like a home to him for his last school year. His two best friends should be beside him, chattering and laughing, and the biggest worry any of them should have is the NEWTs they would take at the end of the year. Harry glanced at his clock; well, technically he would still be in bed as it was just gone five in the morning, but that wasn't the point. The point was, he wouldn't be here in some godforsaken part of Wiltshire, freezing to death and not knowing where Ron and Hermione were but knowing they were probably furious at him for going off without them.

It's just, Harry wanted to keep them safe. He sighed and slung his rucksack on, cast a quick Impervious charm on his glasses, then threw the invisibility cloak over everything. More than that, he needed to keep them safe. A blackbird chattered in alarm as he suddenly vanished from sight. Okay, it was a pretty impossible task; they were in the middle of a war after all, but anywhere was safer than by his side. He was so endangered they should set up preservation societies to protect him. His train of thought was momentarily sidetracked by the image of The Order members holding placards and shouting "Save Harry!" He stifled a giggle. It was for the best, he told himself. The rain continued to fall.

It was midday before the sun managed to break through the clouds; thin watery-yellow light that did nothing to raise Harry's mood. He was walking through a wood, the broad canopy of leaves overhead shielding him somewhat from the rain, but otherwise it didn't have much going for it. He'd discovered from eavesdropping on various conversations that Voldemort's base was somewhere in Wiltshire. Since he'd already been to Godric's Hollow and failed to destroy one Horcrux, the snake Nagini masquerading as Bathilda Bagshot , he didn't really know where else to look.

His plan, such as it was (he was a Gryffindor after all), consisted of finding Voldemort's headquarters and spying on him and the Death Eaters in the hope he'd find out something useful. It was all he could think of right now. He was using the pocket sneakoscope Ron had bought him back in third year and basically walking all over Wiltshire until it picked something up. It had seemed a good idea until he realized how bloody massive Wiltshire was. He'd considered checking Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral, but decided even Voldemort wasn't that ostentatious. So he was just trekking through the countryside and hoping he'd come to a signpost saying 'Dark Lord's Lair, 5 miles'.

Harry had just tripped over his third root when the sneakoscope started to go off. "Silencio," he muttered quickly, then strained his ears anxiously. He heard two voices, arguing faintly in the distance. Thankfully they didn't seem to have heard him. He began to seriously doubt the wisdom of spyware that lit up and whistled when you were near the enemy. Harry began to make his way towards the voices, grateful for the first time to the rain, which had turned the crisp autumnal leaves to mush. A few words reached him through the cover of bushes and branches.

"… the Dark Lord is not pleased by your insubordination." The voice was low and sounded unpleasantly amused, as if the idea of Voldemort's wrath being inflicted on someone was rather funny.

The second voice was too high-pitched, and spoke in too much of a gabble for Harry to understand what the second person was saying. It didn't matter, the fear translated itself in the way the voice trembled and cracked. Harry felt momentarily sorry for the second person until he remembered what the first one had said. Insubordination. So the second person was a Death Eater. Excitement rose in him; he could follow them back to Voldemort's headquarters. He crept forward eagerly until he reached the clearing where the two stood, then froze in shock, mouth suddenly dry.

Draco Malfoy was cowering in the clearing, held at wandpoint by a burly man with a disturbingly feral smile. Fenrir Greyback. The werewolf who liked mauling children. The werewolf that Malfoy had let into Hogwarts back in sixth year, along with a horde of Death Eaters. The werewolf that had scarred Bill Weasley so terribly he was permanently disfigured. It was very tempting to leave Malfoy to him.

The temptation grew when he heard Greyback say in a voice that was mostly growl, "I'm to escort you personally to the Dark Lord." It would be so easy, a little part of Harry's mind whispered, and after all, it is Malfoy.

It stopped being tempting when he heard Greyback's next words.

"Of course, I could always say you struggled… that could be fun." The growl turned into a leer, and Greyback stroked a yellow nail down Malfoy's face. Malfoy jerked away, pale pointy face paler than ever, and looking even sharper as misery tightened his features. He looked like he had that night on the tower, hard but brittle, like he'd break any minute.

Harry rolled his eyes. Why did he have to be such a hero? Why couldn't he just let Malfoy get what was coming to him, instead of wasting weeks of searching for the sake of a ferret-faced Death Eater? Because, his conscience murmured reproachfully, Malfoy may be a foul little prat but he doesn't deserve Greyback. Harry groaned and told himself, only because no one does, and why was Hermione the voice of his conscience?

Harry did what Harry did best and leapt into action. He raised his wand and whispered "Petrificus Totalus." Greyback's werewolf enhanced hearing caught the words and lightning fast he began to move, before freezing, an almost comic Big Bad Wolf. Malfoy stared, stunned, metaphorically rather than literally, and Harry took advantage of this to run and grab Malfoy and disapparate before Malfoy did something Malfoyish and made Harry change his mind and leave him.

Harry apparated to the first place that came to mind. It wasn't home, but then nowhere was anymore. He stood invisible on the doorstep to 13 Grimmauld Place, clenching one of Malfoy's wrists in one hand and his wand in the other. The house loomed over him like an unfriendly giant, the blank windows glaring out at him, the intruder.

The door opened to him, but he sensed the reluctance, the bone deep hatred of something without bones. Sirius may have left the house to him, but the house didn't have to like it. He dragged Malfoy in.

He'd barely stepped off the doormat when it happened. At first it just looked like dust rising off the carpet, then the dust suddenly condensed into a tower, then a person. "Severus Snape?" Words like the thud of bodies falling. A ghastly grim spectre, the Headmaster in shades of grey and white rushing towards them and Harry almost screamed and thought of ghosts and Inferi and things in graveyards that ought to be dead, and the guilt was overpowering, suffocating. "We didn't kill you!" he shouted, trying to convince himself as much as the spectre. There was no acknowledgement in the ghastly eyes, no recognition and no twinkle. The dust-Dumbledore burst, dust motes hanging in the golden evening light like flies in amber.

Malfoy screamed, Harry noticed with distant pleasure, like a girl. He tried to ignore the fact that he was trembling like a leaf and dragged him into a living room. "Expelliarmus," he muttered and caught Malfoy's wand easily as it flew out of his nerveless fingers, then he bound the Slytherin for good measure and shoved him down on the sofa.

"W-who are you?" Malfoy's voice quavered. He looked a lot younger this way, and less irritating.

Harry pulled off his cloak, and watched wearily as Malfoy did his best impression of a house elf, goggling as if he had tennis balls for eyes. He soon recovered though, and reverted to typical Malfoy behavior, namely, insulting Harry. "Potter," he snapped, grey eyes going cold and narrow, "I thought bodysnatching was more the Dark Lord's style. "

"Go to hell," Harry spat automatically.

"What witty repertoire," Malfoy drawled, not quite succeeding at looking bored, "Good thing the world doesn't depend on you defeating the Dark Lord in a battle of wits."

"Shut up Malfoy, I just saved your life," Harry relaxed, watching absently as his wand hand finally stopped trembling. It was weird but it was oddly comforting to be doing something as familiar as arguing with Malfoy.

"Oh and do you expect me to be grateful to you for doing something that seems to be pure reflex," Malfoy laughed bitterly, mouth twisted in the same old sneer, "Still playing the bloody hero, Potter. Some things never change. Although the bondage bit is new," Malfoy mused, eyeing the ropes tying his wrists and ankles, "can't say I'm into it myself, so if you don't mind…" He raised an eyebrow pointedly.

Harry tried not to splutter and turn red. "Shut up!" he growled, blushing fiercely. He was aware he was only partially successful. "I could have left you back there," he warned.

"So why didn't you?" Malfoy's tone was unexpectedly dark. Harry was surprised; as much as Malfoy hated him, he was surely aware that if Harry had left him Fenrir Greyback would have killed him or worse. Malfoy may be annoying, arrogant, slimy and cowardly, but he had always displayed a remarkable sense of self-preservation.

"I mean, we've never been exactly friends, have we?" Malfoy laughed shortly. It sounded painful. "And I killed your precious Dumbledore."

"No you didn't," Harry snarled, heart aching as he remembered the fall, the body oddly graceful as it arched backwards into nothingness, then the terrible limpness of it on the ground. "I was there," he gritted out painfully, "Snape killed him."

Malfoy looked surprised for an instant, "How did you," he began, before scowling, "Of course, invisibility cloak."

His expression returned to glassy-eyed grimness, "Well, I could have killed him. I nearly killed two others; that girl, and of course, your precious Weasel."

He wouldn't curse Malfoy while he was tied up, he told himself, but just in case… Carefully, Harry put his wand down on a table. "You didn't though," he said, as much to calm himself as to Malfoy, "And you couldn't even kill Dumbledore, even that dust thingy knew you hadn't. You're not evil, just nasty and pathetic."

Malfoy laughed again, "You're right," he agreed, "fifty points to Gryffindor."

Harry contained his shock and the urge to beat Malfoy over the head with a frying pan. Who'd have known that Mafoy agreeing with him was more annoying than Malfoy disagreeing with him loudly and constantly? To Harry's disgust, he found Malfoy reminded him of himself, at the end of fifth year, sunk in a pit of ceaseless whining and self-pity after sending Sirius to his death. No, he wanted to protest, it's completely different. I'm nothing like Malfoy, I thought I was saving Sirius… Malfoy on the tower, saying how Voldemort was going to kill his parents.

Harry returned to regarding Malfoy with a mixture of sympathy and dislike. Still, he knew how to deal with self-loathing and moping, and did what no one was brave enough to do to him back then. "Oh, get over yourself Malfoy," he said impatiently, "stop whining and face up to what you did."

It was worth it just for Malfoy's expression. His expression of self-tortured, angst-ridden guilt froze and cracked. "What did you say?" he said carefully, icily, rage flooding his face. "I nearly killed people, your friends, and you call me whiny?"

It was the tone of incredulous anger, tinged with faint hysteria that tipped Harry over the edge. He started laughing. Malfoy looked as affronted as when Hermione slapped him, which made Harry laugh harder. Eventually he calmed down, smiling fondly as he remembered the gaze of pure adoration Ron had bestowed on Hermione. His smiled tightened a little; he missed them.

"Are you quite done?" Malfoy asked acerbically. He was sat on the sofa, looking as haughty as possible while simultaneously bound. Harry nearly laughed again, then felt slightly disgusted as he realized he felt better than he had done in months. The loneliness really must be getting to him if he was enjoying Malfoy's company.

"I suppose so," Harry said, "anyway, I better go check there aren't any Death Eaters in here. Well," he paused, "apart from you."

Malfoy ignored the pointed reference and chose instead to start panicking. "Wait, there might be Death Eaters in here – why haven't you checked already? Merlin, they could arrive here any minute and –" he squeaked, a most undignified noise, as Harry started to cross the room, "You can't leave me here defenseless!"

Harry sighed and ruffled his hair in irritation. "Malfoy, are you always so shrill?"

Malfoy spluttered in indignation, "That's rich coming from you, Potter. You either mumble awfully of you bawl so the entire Great Hall can hear. Terribly embarrassing."

Harry frowned. Voldemort gave him headaches, and so it appeared did Malfoy. If giving him headaches was a sign of Voldemort's evilness what did that say about Malfoy? Frankly, despite going to school with the prat for seven years this was the longest conversation he'd had with Malfoy, since all of their other conversations had ended up with them being dragged apart by teachers. He reached the conclusion that Malfoy was far more annoying than he'd given him credit for, and wondered how the hell the Slytherins had put up with this for seven years. He also came to the conclusion that Malfoy may have a point, and it might be a little harsh to leave him trussed up like a turkey for the Death Eaters to find.

"Fine," he said shortly, and removed the ropes, "Come on, follow me, we'll start off downstairs."

Malfoy rubbed his wrists tenderly, little drama queen that he was, "Non-verbal untying spell, Potter you kinky bastard, have you been practicing?" Harry just rolled his eyes and gestured impatiently towards the door. Malfoy sighed and muttered something that might have been humourless prick. "If you gave me back my wand we could split up and search," Malfoy said, glancing hopefully at Harry.

Harry pulled out a smirk of his own, "Like I'm going to give you a wand."

"Well, it was worth a try. You Gryffindors are known for being stupidly trusting and, let's face it, just stupid," Malfoy smirked, and Harry was horribly aware his smirk was a million times more devilishly wicked than his own. "Since you've chosen now to demonstrate an iota of intelligence I might as well save myself the bother of traipsing up and down your frankly shabby house and tell you an easier way to check if there's anyone in here."

"Oh yeah?" Harry glared, bristling at the manifold insults and trying to console himself with the knowledge that Malfoy probably spent hours practicing that smirk in mirrors.

"Yeah," Malfoy drawled disdainfully, "We are wizards, are we not?" He let the implication hang heavy in the air and then held out a hand.

Harry was actually so cowed he handed the wand over. Cobra quick, Malfoy had it pointed at him, "Expelliarmus," he hissed triumphantly. Harry's wand jerked itself free. Malfoy jammed the tip of his wand into Harry's neck, a sickeningly smug smirk plastered wide across those aristocratic features, "I prove my point, stupid."

Harry could almost agree with Malfoy. What a humiliating end to it all; he'd fought trolls, basilisks and Voldemort himself, but in the end he was his own worst enemy. "Listen Malfoy," he began.

Malfoy tutted , "You're not in a position to tell anyone what to do are you? I wonder if the Weaselette finds it sexy you're so authoritive," Malfoy looked vaguely nauseous at the thought.

Harry screamed and gibbered and beat Malfoy into mush. In his imagination. In reality he tried again, "Look, um, I mean…" He trailed off at the sound of a door slamming upstairs. Malfoy turned the colour of fresh milk.

"Oh Circe, what do we do?" Malfoy hissed agitatedly.

"Ouch!" Harry yelped. Malfoy's wand had started letting off green sparks. "How about you give me back my wand , tosser!"

"Get stuffed, Potter," Malfoy informed him primly.

"Oh for-" Harry gave up reasoning and lunged at Malfoy.

Malfoy tried to squeak soundlessly, "Are you insane?" he whispered, shoving violently at Harry. Harry stumbled and grabbed Malfoy to try and steady himself, and Malfoy took the opportunity to violently yank Harry's hair.

Enraged by this further proof that Malfoy Did Not Fight Fair, Harry lost all reason and just tried to punch Malfoy in the face. He missed but somehow managed to elbow Malfoy in the stomach. Wheezing, Malfoy doubled over and Harry made a frantic snatch for his wand. He managed to pry it out of Malfoy's hand by bending some of Malfoy's fingers backwards, but ended up getting scratched and bitten in the process.

Harry straightened up, breathless and managed to pant out "Stupefy." Malfoy abruptly went limp. Harry turned towards the door, "Who's there? Show yourselves!"

The creak of a floorboard, a low voice muttering too low to make out. The hair on the back of Harry's neck prickled. The doorknob turned slowly and the door opened. He could hear what the thing was saying now, "Stupid filthy halfblood, thinks he can order Kreacher around, coming here and throwing out the heirlooms, daring to defile the most noble house of Black…"

Harry simultaneously felt a rush of relief and a rush of hatred, "Kreacher," he snarled, and the house elf entered, back bent, tea towel as grubby and ragged as Harry remembered, the huge eyes watery and bloodshot, fixed purposefully on some point just to the side of Harry.

"Master is asking for Kreacher," the house elf said at normal volume, then under his breath, "Not that Master is a worthy Master, with his tainted blood and…" just then Kreacher caught sight of Malfoy. He let out a horrible squeal, "Young Master Malfoy! What has happened to him, has Master killed him? What can Kreacher do? Kreacher wants to protect young Master Malfoy, but Kreacher is bound to serve the filthy halfblood." He began to wring his hands, eying Harry balefully.

"Malfoy's not dead," Harry snapped, feeling queasy at the concern for Malfoy, "Your precious Death Eater is just unconscious. You really have a thing for Death Eaters don't you? First Regulus and now Malfoy?"

Harry regretted mentioning Regulus. As soon as he did Kreacher eyes lit up like light bulbs, and the house elf looked absentminded. Without the look of foul loathing on his face, Kreacher looked a lot like Dobby. "Master Regulus was such a good, kind Master. Said he trusted Kreacher… Bad Kreacher!" The house elf abruptly shrieked, eyes filling with tears, "Bad, bad Kreacher!" the house elf began to box his own ears.

Harry watched, feeling somewhat horrified. He couldn't help feeling sorry for Kreacher, but couldn't stop blaming him for Sirius' death. Still, he didn't take any pleasure in witnessing the house elf's distress, or the way he punished himself. "Kreacher, stop," Harry ordered. Reluctantly the house elf stopped. "Look, go get two rooms ready," Harry said.

"Master Malfoy is staying?" the house elf asked.

"Yes," said Harry, hoping that Kreacher wouldn't booby-trap the rooms if he knew Malfoy would be sleeping there too.

The house elf began to shuffle out of the room, still looking a little dazed.

Harry looked away from the pathetic sight he made and turned instead to look at Malfoy. He sighed in exasperation. What the hell was he supposed to do with Malfoy? Let him go and have him run telling tales to Voldemort? Definitely not. But what else could he do, Azkaban was pretty much controlled by Voldemort by now, and Malfoy would either be set free by Death Eaters or killed by them. He supposed he could contact the Order, but he didn't know what they'd do with Malfoy. The Burrow had replaced here as the Order headquarters, and Harry didn't want to imagine the Weasley's reactions if Malfoy got left with them. It looked like the only thing to do was keep Malfoy by his side until he figured out a better plan.

Oh well. Harry stifled a sigh, reached down and plucked up Malfoy's wand, retreated a few paces and considered whether to bind Malfoy again. He decided not to; they were getting nowhere stuck in this room. "Ennervate," he pointed his wand at Malfoy.

Malfoy groaned, eyelids fluttering. He opened his eyes, wide and grey as the winter sky, and sat up, wincing and rubbing his head. He suddenly froze, probably remembering where he was, and looked around. He glared when he saw Harry.

"Has anyone ever told you Potter, you're a bastard," he said coldly.

Harry tried not to grind his teeth together. Hermione, as the daughter of dentists, really had a thing about that. "Look, Malfoy, we should try to act civilly."

"Did it occur to you stupefying someone when they're about to be attacked is a really stupid thing to do?" Malfoy continued, ignoring Harry.

"Did it occur to you that stealing someone's wand when they're about to be attacked is a really stupid thing to do?" Harry countered.

Malfoy flushed slightly, a faint tinge of pink in his colourless cheeks. "What else could I do, if I'd have given you back your wand, you'd have disarmed me and have me tied up in a corner."

Harry tried to deny it, "That's," he began, before stopping. He would have but, "Still, I know what I'm doing, I kind of have practice duelling you know-"

"Oh Potter, you are my hero, protect me, protect me," Malfoy said sarcastically.

Harry sighed, and raked a hand through his hair again, leaving it all standing on end. He could sort of see Malfoy's point, but at the same time, he still wouldn't give Malfoy his wand if they were all attacked. "Anyway," he said, "it was just the house elf."

Malfoy gave him a very dubious look, but thankfully stopped badgering Harry about his wand, "You have a house elf?" he said, eying Harry as if to say, then why do you look like that?

Harry flushed, aware that after a couple of months sleeping in a tent and using Scourify to wash his clothes he looked even more ragged than normal. "Kreacher sort of came with the house."

Malfoy gave the room an even more dubious once over. With the thick layers of dust coating everything, the cobwebs in the corners, the faded wallpaper, the room looked even shabbier than Harry did. "You didn't do that thing where you set him free, did you?"

Harry sighed loudly, "I've only ever done that to Dobby. Kreacher would have a heart attack if someone gave him clothes."

"Good to know it's only other people's house elves you go around freeing," said Malfoy coolly.

A frosty silence descended on them both. Harry wrenched a hand through his hair. He was gratified to see the look of pain that crossed Malfoy's ferrety face. Harry considered how Malfoy would look if he saw his own reflection. The image brought a smile to his face that caused Malfoy to eye him with suspicion.

They were saved from further awkwardness by the reappearance of Kreacher, who took one look at Malfoy standing, clearly alive, and fell to his knees, apparently overcome by rapturous joy. Harry felt revolted; no one should look at Malfoy with that intense starry-eyed devotion, it was just… creepy.

"Master," croaked Kreacher, "Kreacher is not fit to clean your boots."

Malfoy smirked, "Glad to see someone's got the right idea."

"Get up Kreacher," Harry said, shooting the elf a dirty look. Once a traitor, always a traitor he guessed. The elf grudgingly obeyed, grumbling all the time about filthy half-breeds and how they could not compare, next to the glory of aristocratic purebloods.

Malfoy's smirk grew so wide, Harry was convinced any second now his head would split in half.

Harry sighed, he was too weary for this. "Shut up Malfoy, I'm going to bed."

"Oh," said Malfoy with scorn, "is ickle Harrykins too tired, is it past his bedtime?"

Harry just stared at Malfoy blankly. Malfoy looked exhausted, he noticed. Not that he was concerned about his wellbeing, but it was one of those things you couldn't help noticing if you looked properly. Livid purple-black bags, like bruises, hung under Malfoy's eyes, so dark they made his pale skin paler, until it looked almost translucent. Even Malfoy's hair had lost its sheen, the sleek, pampered look Malfoy had previously worn eroded. His insults lacked a certain fire, and his body sagged as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Hello? Did you fall asleep with your eyes open Potter?" Malfoy was waving a hand in front of Harry's face. Harry realised that he had just zoned out staring at Malfoy's face, and felt an intense urge to scrub his eyeballs. Sure sign of exhaustion, gazing at Malfoy for more than five seconds without wanting to punch him in the face.

"Nrgh," said Harry, as a wave of fatigue crashed against him. He felt like a rock about to crumble into the ocean of unconsciousness.

Malfoy looked at him with faint alarm, "Looking peaky, Potter. Can't go fighting Dark Lord's if you're not in top physical form."

"Why'd you care?" Harry snarled. Well, tried to. It came out more like a yawn.

Malfoy sneered, proving once more how limited his range of facial expressions was. "I don't care, I just also don't want to have to deal with you passed out."

"Surely it'd be good for you if I passed out, you could just grab your wand and apparate away." Harry said reasonably.

Malfoy scowled horribly, "Where would I go?"

Harry shrugged, "I dunno, home?"

There was another moment of icy silence. Pink spots flushed on Malfoy's cheeks, a sure sign he was angry. "Is that supposed to be funny, Potter?" Malfoy said furiously.

Harry didn't even know what he'd done this time to make Malfoy mad, so he just shrugged helplessly.

Thankfully, his complete bewilderment seemed to calm Malfoy down. "They're using my home as a base," he said coldly, "my father invited the Dark Lord to stay, to try and make up for his failure at the Ministry."

Harry didn't know how to respond. It was his fault Malfoy's father had failed and had been imprisoned, but he couldn't say he was sorry. He thought it must have been horrible having to live with Voldemort, but at the same time he kind of thought Malfoy deserved it. You didn't have to be like your family; Sirius proved that. Like an old wound that never healed, Harry's heart clenched painfully at the thought of Sirius. He couldn't bear to look at Kreacher, or Malfoy for a second. "What an honour," he said tightly.

When he did look back at Malfoy the pink spots had returned to his cheeks. "I hate you Potter," he said in a low voice.

Harry nodded, good. He didn't want Malfoy to like him. And he didn't care if he had hurt Malfoy's feelings with what he had said. He walked out of the room, towards the stairs. "Kreacher?"

The house elf came scuttling out of the kitchen, scowling hideously, "Yes, Master? Although it shames Kreacher to have to serve such a Master and what would my Mistress say, if she were still alive?"

Harry rolled his eyes, "Which bedrooms did you prepare?"

With much muttering and grumbling, Kreacher led the way up the flight of stairs to the first floor and indicated two doors.

"Uh, thanks," Harry said, who'd had politeness to house elves beaten into him by Hermione. Kreacher looked like he'd been insulted, and hurriedly left. Harry inwardly shrugged, then opened the first of the two doors; the room beyond looked like it had barely been touched, the neglect that came from not being lived in evident, the only thing to suggest Kreacher had even touched the place was the lack of dust. Harry opened the second door. The room was much nicer, the four poster bed freshly made up, everything dusted, a desk in a corner with a chair tucked under, a bookcase and an armchair. It was also decorated with Slytherin banners draped on the walls; Harry thought that might have been taking it a bit far, even for Kreacher.

Malfoy pushed past Harry, "This one's mine," he announced, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his boots off.

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but said "Okay," instead

Malfoy stared at his feet, surprise mingling with pleasure on his pointy features, "Thank you," he said so softly Harry couldn't be sure Malfoy had said anything.

Harry nodded, and closed the door. He debated locking Malfoy in, but what if Malfoy needed the toilet? It occurred to Harry that he hadn't even shown Malfoy where the toilet was, but the point was still valid. Instead he set up a little spell he'd learnt last year when he was trying to keep track of Malfoy leaving and entering the Come and Go room. It was like an invisible tripwire that Malfoy would set off whenever he left the room, leading off a cacophony of alarms, only audible to Harry's ears. Harry thought that whoever invented this spell had the right idea about stealth.

Harry went back to his own room, took off his shoes, jeans, coat and jumper, then climbed into bed. He turned off the lights, set a tripwire up on his own door in case anyone tried to sneak up on him sleeping ("Constant vigilance!"), then tucked his wand under his pillow. As usual, he lay awake for a while, unable to sleep despite being exhausted. The false locket lay around his neck, its cold weight pinning him to the mattress with guilt, a constant reminder of his quest. Eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A.N: Hello, well here's the next chapter, thank you for the reviews last chapter :D. I'm going to try and publish two chapters a week on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but I may not always be able to stick to this schedule due to work/life. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and find it at least mildly entertaining. I'm thinking about writing a Bellatrix/Hermione one-shot, inspired by the torture scene in DH, like the idea?

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

The next day began badly. Harry was woken from a dream in which hundreds of house elves were chasing him and trying to iron his ears by the sound of a thousand sirens having a field day. He shot bolt upright, blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to focus. He was mildly shocked to see he had his wand in his hand. He was even more shocked to see Ron and Hermione at the foot of his bed.

"Nrgh," Harry said, which in this context meant, "How wonderful to see you guys again, I hope you're not too mad at me for leaving you guys behind."

Hermione sniffed, an eloquent sound that both cleared her nasal passage and conveyed the message, "It's great to see you too, Harry, and of course we've both fuming you left us behind, I mean really, Harry."

Ron just grinned, his wide white grin, his cheerful freckled face looking happy. "Harry, mate, great to see you."

"'S'nice t'see you too, Ron," Harry mumbled, "S'rry 'Mione," he added apologetically.

Hermione shot Ron a frustrated look; clearly he hadn't caught the non-verbal nuances to Hermione sniff, then expelled a breath sharply. Her next look told Harry all was not yet forgiven, but it soon would be. "So," she began, "found any Horcruxes?"

Draco awoke to the murmur of voices downstairs, laughter, the clink of plates and cutlery. The smell of frying bacon, warm sunlight on his face, a comfortable bed. All homely sensations; he knew instantly he wasn't home. He eased his eyes open fraction by fraction. The room he was lying in was old fashioned, the decorations though once rich and ornate now faded. He sat up, wincing as recollection set in. Ah yes, he was at Potter's house, how embarrassing. But how did Potter, with his questionable taste in friends and his downright hideous taste in clothes, end up with this kind of house? It stank of money, blood supremacy and Dark, three things Potter had always shown nil interest in. Because Potter was an abnormal freak.

Draco swung his legs off the bed and padded over to the desk. A slight smell of mould and neglect hung in the air despite the efforts of the house elf last night. It was so faint a smell it was more a feeling than scent, a feeling of loss and decay that covered the house like a shroud. The desk was solid oak, the legs carved into serpents twined around one another. Several sheets of paper lay on the desk, the writing faded into illegibility, the ink in the pot long dry. Draco shivered.

Next he examined the Slytherin banners, lips curling in a faint smile. Whoever this room had belonged to had had great taste. He went to the bookcase and pulled out a book at random, which just so happened to be a book of Dark curses, and opened it. There on the cover was a name; Regulus A. Black. Black, eh? Well that explained it then, obviously Potty had inherited the house when his dear Godfather, that nut Sirius Black, had expired. Clearly neither of the two, both bloody Gryffindors, had properly appreciated this house. How the House of Black had fallen. It made Malfoy feel a little sad to think that there was no longer anyone carrying the name Black; his mother was now a Malfoy, Andromeda had married a Muggle, Sirius was dead, and so was Regulus.

Regulus Black. His mother had mentioned him occasionally, they were cousins after all; how he'd been a Death Eater, and then been killed by the Dark Lord for insubordination, how it had broken his mother's heart to have one son dead and another disinherited and then exiled to Azkaban. Apparently it had driven her insane.

A peal of muffled laughter from below broke into his gloomy reminiscing. Suddenly it struck him, something he'd been too tired to notice last night. Potter had been alone, a state of affairs that shouldn't warrant alarm or confusion, except Potter never went anywhere without his two goons firmly glued to his side. From the sounds of merriment coming from downstairs this was a state of affairs that sadly hadn't continued for all that long.

It hadn't taken much for Potter to forget all about him. It was typical of that idiot, he just went charging about rescuing people and then dismissed them as soon as they were safe. Draco felt a surge of bitterness rise up inside him and was enraged by it. How was it that Potter's dismissal of him hurt? The rejection in first year still rankled. He glared at the floor like it had insinuated something about his parentage, then strode to the door and flung it open, smirking a little at the loud bang as it hit the wall. It stopped that damned laughter.

He briefly considered delaying his grand entrance downstairs to put on a shirt, but decided the hell with it, he had nothing to be ashamed of, appearance wise at least. Draco stalked down the stairs like he owned them, passing a dusty mirror on the way. He gave his reflection an approving nod, and continued down.

It was when he reached the passageway at the bottom that he realized he didn't know where the kitchen was. Kitchens were something that happened to other people in his opinion. Menial labour was carried out by other people there, and he'd heard that was catching so he'd never hung around one. Still, he wasn't just going to wait around for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Prat to remember him. Malfoy's seized the moment, carpe diem, although that wasn't the official Malfoy motto of course. In any case he strode forward purposefully.

It wasn't his fault an troll foot umbrella stand happened to get in the way and trip him. He was the pinnacle of poise and grace. He swore and kicked the bloody thing for good measure.

Someone screamed at him. A curtain he hadn't noticed before flew open, revealing not a window but a portrait of an old lady in ridiculous dress robes, "WHO DARES DEFILE THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK? TRAITORS, MUDBLOODS AND HALF BREEDS!"

Draco went from terrified to insulted in less than three seconds, a speed that even the new Firebolt would find hard to equal. "Who exactly do you think I am?" he asked nastily.

The portrait paused briefly from its list of derogatory remarks and took a good look at him. "Is that you, Lucius?" the portrait asked in surprise, the old woman coming closer to the frame and peering intently at him.

"No," answered Draco shortly, he didn't really feel like talking about his father. "I'm Draco, his son."

"Ah, Narcissa's boy," the old lady seemed pleased, "You don't look much like her."

"I know," Draco said. Everyone knew he took after his father.

"You've got the Black eyes though," the old lady nodded, looking less senile, "Same as me. I'm your Aunt Walburga."

Draco felt momentarily horrified at being related to anyone that old looking, but then became a lot more interested in the other thing she'd said. "Do we?" he started looking at her as intently as she at him. She was right; they both had the same cool, grey eyes. He'd never really given them any thought before, but both his parents had blue eyes.

It felt odd to realize he had something that marked him out as part Black, he'd always thought he was the archetypal Malfoy – white blond hair, supercilious sneer and all that. It felt odd. He surveyed the rest of her face carefully, searching for another sign that they shared blood, but if there had ever been some other similarity between them time had erased it. Her eyes were the only thing that had not aged.

"Malfoy, are you alright? How'd you get Mrs Black's portrait to shut up?" asked a familiar and oh so irritating voice, then hastily, "Malfoy! Put some clothes on, for the love of magic." Draco could hear the blush.

"INTRUDER! DESECRATER! FILTH!" The portrait erupted again, a look of madness twisting her features.

"Quieten down please, Aunt Walburga," Draco said wearily. The portrait snapped her mouth shut, and gave him a cold look. Draco was rather pleased to recognise it as one he often wore. Potter just looked gormless, not like that was unusual for him. "Now while I quite agree with your sentiments, I don't think screaming obscenities is going to do much," he drawled, enjoying the feeling of being in charge.

The calm was fleeting, and broken as usual by that blundering red-head and bushy-haired Mudblood who came rushing in.

"Harry are you alright? Malfoy hasn't hurt you, has he?" said the Mudblood breathlessly, her oversized teeth flashing as she spoke.

"What's this about Malfoy being naked?" the Weasel asked, before screwing up his face as he saw the vision of beauty that was Draco shirtless, "Ew, gross."

Plebeian. Draco thought absently.

"VILE COMMONERS! INSULTING MY OWN FLESH WITHIN MY HOUSE, HOW DARE YOU, YOU –"

Draco distractedly listened to Aunt Walburga spewing vitriol in his defence for a few minutes, while Weasel tried valiantly to pull the curtains shut to no avail, and the frizzy-headed bint rushed off to the kitchen where she'd apparently left her wand. So like those who hadn't been properly brought up, Draco thought serenely, a pureblood never went anywhere without their wand. He coughed politely, "Aunt Walburga?"

"Should've guessed you two would be related," spat the Weasley, whole face flushed pink with exertion, "You've both Pureblood, Dark Arts obsessed loons."

"Your face clashes with your hair," Draco snapped, then turned to the portrait, "Thank you for defending me, Aunt Walburga."

"You're very welcome," said the old lady haughtily, "unlike some others I could mention."

Draco laughed, "I think we have more than one thing in common."

The portrait looked at him with a glimmer of a smile, "Of course we do, my dear. "

Draco smirked at his aunt, enjoying the sound of Weasley spluttering, and Potter looking nonplussed. "Still, that idiot in the glasses saved my life."

"Why Harry?" ground out the Weasel, "Why did you have to do a thing like that?"

The portrait looked genuinely dismayed, "How terrible. So you're indebted to this hideously bespectacled boy?"

Draco nodded glumly, "Unfortunately."

The portrait sighed, "Can I at least be horrible to the other two?"

"No," barked Potter, dumbly loyal.

The portrait shuddered, "How… noble."

"He is a Gryffindor," said Draco sadly. They were both silent for a moment, ruminating on the misfortune of being beholden to a Gryffindor. They both shuddered.

"And you?" asked his Aunt suddenly.

"Slytherin," Draco assured her, "the hat barely touched my head."

The portrait sighed in relief, wearing the expression of one who'd narrowly dodged an Avada Kedava, "Thank god. I never used to worry until Sirius," she confided, "thankfully Reggie went to Slytherin."

The Boy-Who-Lived, worst luck, couldn't let the insult to his house or mutt of a Godfather slide, "Sirius was a good man, that's why he was in Gryffindor. Better than that precious Death Eater son of yours."

"Shut up Potter!" Draco hated Potter, hated, hated Potter. It was too late; the lucidity started to drain from the portrait's eyes at the mention of her beloved son and the blood traitor who'd broken her heart.

"Reggie," she muttered, eyes gazing vacantly past Draco, back into the past, "my boy, my pride." Her eyes focused suddenly, and Draco felt hopeful at the recognition in her stare, "Where's Regulus?" she asked plaintively, "Lucius, what has the Dark Lord done to my boy?"

"I'm not…" Draco began, then faltered. Did it matter who he was? "I'm sorry, he killed him. The Dark Lord killed your son."

The portrait stared at him silently for a few seconds that felt like hours. Her eyes were as flat and cold as the lake at Hogwarts on a calm day. Expressionless, the way his eyes could be. Then the ripples started, like someone skipping stones along the surface. Anguish clouded her eyes and she let out a sudden high-pitched keen.

Draco winced, and swerved angrily on Potter, "Are you happy now, Potter?"

Potter gaped and opened his mouth but Draco cut off whatever he was about to say, "Just shut her up, will you?"

Predictably Potter was as useful as a dead fish, but the Mudblood finally re-emerged from the kitchen and cast a silencing spell. The quiet was deafening, and he still had his Aunt's screams ringing in his ears. He ignored them all and strode into the kitchen, the Golden Trio bumbling along behind him.

The kitchen was disgusting; drawers pulled out, cupboard doors hanging off their hinges, stale crumbs and smears on all the worktops. Draco felt an icy rage building inside of him. No wonder the portrait had gone mad, watching the house she'd been so proud of fall into disrepair, frequented by people who insulted her and everything she'd ever cared about.

"What was all that about?" It was the Weasley, confusion in a freckled box.

"Malfoy," Potter began, probably about to say in a conciliatory but self-righteous way that he'd been right and Sirius was a martyr and an angel and Draco just didn't want to hear any of it.

"Do you enjoy making old ladies cry Potter? Because if so, then you're seriously sick," Draco turned to face them, sneer fixed firmly in position.

"She insulted Sirius!"

"She was his mother and he broke her heart! And don't you think mentioning her murdered son is a bit of a low blow? Not so noble as you like others to think, are you Potter?" Draco erupted, fists curling by his sides. He was one minute away from punching Potter, and hang the fact he was practically useless at fighting, wandless as he was.

Potter flushed, and stepped to the side, so the table wasn't between him and Draco. Things probably would have got ugly then if the Mudblood hadn't intervened.

"Both of you stop it," she said, stepping in between them, "It doesn't matter what Malfoy says, Harry," she said to Potter earnestly, "so can we just have breakfast in peace?" she smiled desperately. Potter's stony look softened as he looked at her. Draco's stomach turned. Then growled.

That broke the tension somewhat. It's hard to be icily furious at someone when your stomach is doing its best Professor Lupin at a full moon impression. Draco sat down on a chair stiffly, "Fine. Someone bring me toast."

The three of them even spluttered in indignation, Draco observed. Potter finally went to make the toast, gritting his teeth as he did so. The other two sat at the table, while he looked around the kitchen. He found some coffee beans eventually, and filled a mug up with water. Then he sat down again, poured the beans into the mug and glared fiercely at it. Potter placed the toast down next to the mug with a bang, but Draco refused to allow this to break his concentration.

It was the Weasel who finally cracked, "Malfoy, you obnoxious ferret, what in Merlin's name are you doing?"

Draco did not move his eyes from the cup, "Attempting to make a cup of coffee using non-verbal magic. Some idiot refuses to give me my wand."

The Weasel snorted, "Too bloody right."

The Mudblood said in tones of false politeness, "Would you like me to make you coffee, Malfoy?"

For the sake of not causing another argument Draco said, "Keep your hands off my coffee, Granger," instead of "Touch anything of mine and die, Mudblood." From the way the prat in the glasses ground his teeth, Draco figured this hadn't been polite enough. Bad luck, he thought maliciously, Malfoy's don't play nicely.

The three idiots held a whispered conference; well, two of them did. The third one just exclaimed passionately and loudly, "But we can't trust him with his wand, it's Malfoy!"

The freckled idiot was apparently overruled. His wand hit the table and started rolling. He grabbed it before it could hit the floor, "Ever heard of treating other people's possessions with respect?"

Bespectacled idiot rolled his eyes derisively, "Wish you'd thought about that before you'd grabbed Neville's rememberall back in first year.

Draco sniggered, Longbottom. His snigger died when he remembered the outcome of that little prank. He scowled darkly, blasting Potter and McGonnagal and favouritism and bratty first years being allowed on the Quidditch team and Nimbus 2000's.

He looked up into Potter's infuriating grin. Potter obviously knew which part Malfoy was remembering. He sneered, and made his coffee for want of something better to do.

The three idiots started talking again.

"Let's see the locket again," said the Mudblood, leaning over the table towards Potter. Potter nodded acquiescence, and pulled a locket out from under his t-shirt. Malfoy watched from under his lashes, as they scrutinised the locket. "I've been looking through some books, looking for an R.A.B," the Mudblood began in a hopeless tone.

The Weasel patted her consolingly on the back, "There, there," he said comfortingly, then ruined it all by adding, "I've always said you can't learn everything out of a book." The Mudblood visibly bristled.

"Um," Potter interjected, Master Diffuser of Rows.

Draco got up lithely and waltzed over. He leaned over Potter's shoulder and hooked the locket by the chain then backed off before Potter realised and took it back. Mudblood and Weasel stopped spitting daggers at each other to focus twin glares at him. Draco was not fazed; they were nothing compared to Pansy that time he bespelled her bra to flash neon pink. He examined the locket with genuine curiosity; it was an old piece, plain but heavy. Expensive, solid silver. He made to open the locket.

"Don't!" Potter said authoritatively, standing up, wand out, "Quit messing around and give it back or I'll hex you."

Draco smirked, and let the locket dangle, spinning on its chain, "I know who R.A.B is."

That stunned them. He didn't know why they needed to know who R.A.B was, but it had to be important. Draco was a Slytherin, which meant he loved secrecy, he guarded his own secrets fiercely and delighted in uncovering other people's. He quirked a lip, "Let's trade; I'll tell you who R.A.B is, and you tell me everything. "

"You're bluffing," Potter said, scar livid red against his suddenly pale face.

"Maybe. Do you know that for certain?" Draco said, "Can you risk passing up this information?"

"One name for all our information doesn't seem very fair," the Mudblood said quietly.

Draco rolled his eyes, "Fair is an adjective only ever used to describe my colouring. I'm a Slytherin."

"We don't trade with Death Eaters," the Weasel growled, "we can just torture it out of you."

Draco nearly laughed at the idea of these do-gooders torturing anyone, then he saw the grim expressions on their faces. He kept his expression coolly amused, "You could torture it out of me, but you'd have no guarantee I wouldn't just lie."

Potter pulled his heroic, traumatised face; Draco thought it made him look constipated. "How do we know you won't just lie anyway?"

"Simple," Draco said. He got up from the table and went upstairs. He was back down in a few minutes, The three idiots were all sat around the table, anxiously discussing as he re-entered the kitchen.

"-don't like this at all, Harry."

"We've got no choice," said Boy Wonder with a tragic sigh.

Draco cleared his throat. They all looked round at him with identical looks of distrust and anxiety. He wondered if anyone ever told them they spent too much time together. "Tada," he said sarcastically, pulling out a vial of colourless liquid.

"Great," said the Weasel, "What is it?"

Water, thought Draco, water from the upstairs bathroom I just put in a potions vial.

"Is that Veritaserum?" said the Mudblood.

Draco nodded. He poured four glasses of water, and added drops of the water in the vial to all of them. "You lot first," he nodded to the glasses.

"Giftus Revealus," said the Mudblood, pointing her wand at a glass. Nothing happened.

"Never mind, 'Mione, we all have off days," said the Weasel sympathetically.

She glared at him and Draco snickered, "She's checking for poison you idiot."

She finished checking all the glasses one by one, and then they drank. Draco held his breath, heart beating wildly; this was a massive gamble…

Potter started, awkwardly, haltingly. The whole story about the Hocruxes from beginning to end. Draco's urge to laugh at his trickery faded away as he listened to Potter. The bit about Dumbledore was obviously painfully fresh in Potter's mind, if the glare he gave Draco was any indication. Draco flushed a little; he'd done a lot in sixth year he wasn't very proud of. Weasley and Granger occasionally made one or two comments, but that was it. By the end, he was fairly certain he had the right R.A.B.

Then they finished and gazed expectantly at him. He waited, comfortable enough in the centre of attention.

"Bottoms up," the Mudblood said drily.

"What?" said Draco, momentarily thrown.

Potter rolled his eyes, "Drink up then."

Draco shrugged elegantly, and downed it.

Potter licked his lips, anticipation lighting up his green eyes, he leaned forward to ask, but the Weasel beat to it him, "How many girls have you slept with?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and lied smoothly, "Thirty-two. I'm shocked; a Gryffindor taking advantage."

"Ron!" said the Mudblood, clearly also shocked her freckly boyfriend would do such a thing.

"That's not fair, Ron," Potter said, but his grin said otherwise.

"Thirty-two? Really?" gasped the Weasel.

Draco nodded.

"I always knew you Slytherins were depraved," the Weasel muttered enviously, "but how'd you find thirty-two girls who'd sleep with you?"

"Well," Draco began, enjoying himself, "First I slept with all the girls in Slytherin in the same year, and then Ravenclaw, then there was the Beauxbatons girls and then –"

"Enough!" Potter looked horrified. Who'd have took Potty for a prude? He shook his head like a dog shaking off water droplets and focused, "Who is R.A.B?"

The Weasel and the Mudblood leaned forward, expressions serious. Draco fought back an urge to giggle. "Regulus Arcturcus Black," he sat back, "I think he's a second cousin."

They all looked dumbfounded. "No way," Potter breathed, then louder, more vehemently, "No way!"

Draco shrugged, "Why don't you ask the house elf?

No way, thought Harry numbly, unable to believe what he'd just heard. Still, Malfoy had taken Veritaserum so he couldn't be lying, but he might be mistaken… but Harry knew he wasn't. It all fitted too neatly; Sirius's little brother, who'd joined the Death Eaters and then had been killed because he wanted out. Except this way, he hadn't been a cowardly, evil Death Eater. He'd made a bad choice, but had tried to redeem himself. Harry wished he could tell Sirius.

"Why don't you ask the house elf?"

Harry stared blankly at Malfoy, thoughts whirling. Those cool grey eyes stared back at him unflinchingly. Finally he tore his gaze away and barked, "Kreacher!"

There was a loud pop and the house elf appeared. "More filthy unwanted guests," he muttered, glaring at Hermione and Ron, "the young Malfoy is still here," a look of adoration, "and my master, stupid halfblood, not even a Black, who does he think he is, playing with Master Regulus' locket?" The house elf did a double take. "Master Regulus's locket!" he shrieked, wringing long thin fingers in agitation.

Harry nodded, feeling that queasy sensation that was half pity, half revulsion again.

"Bingo, Malfoy," he whispered, then scowled darkly at Kreacher, "So you recognise this then? Have you got any idea if Regulus had another locket? Looked a bit like this with an S on the front?"

"Kreacher has no idea," said the house elf, reaching out a hand yearningly for the locket, "Kreacher is not telling that filthy half blood, Kreacher keeps Master Regulus's secrets."

"So you do know!" shouted Harry, fists clenching by his side, "Listen, elf, this is important. If you don't tell us thousands of people will die!"

"Kreacher is sorry Kreacher can't help," then muttered, "People always die, why should Kreacher care? Mrs Black is dead, and Master Black is dead and Mistress Bellatrix is never coming back…"

Harry narrowly restrained himself from kicking the house elf. "Malfoy," he said through gritted teeth, "Have you got any more Veritaserum?"

Malfoy, who had gone pale and unusually quiet, shook his head, "That batch was all I had."

"Harry," that was Hermione, also looking pale but also looking determined, "Harry don't do this."

He turned away from her, "He knows, Hermione, and we need to know."

Now Ron started to look uneasy, "That's right mate, but you're not going to really hurt him, are you?"

Harry felt sick; why were they looking at him like that? Like he was a monster? This was war, they couldn't afford to get upset over the feelings of one house elf. Especially not the one who'd killed Sirius, his mind whispered. No, that's not what this was about. He looked at Kreacher, small and hunched, googly eyes bloodshot and old and half-mad. I don't want revenge on this, he felt tired, overwrought. I'm doing this because I have to. "There's no other choice."

He lifted his wand and pointed it at the house elf, trying to conceal his hand shaking. An image of Dobby flashed into his head, "Dobby is a free elf!", helping Harry with the second task for the Triwizard Tournament. Harry lowered his wand, "I can't do it."

Ron expelled a nervous sigh of relief. Hermione flung her arms around his neck and gasped, "I knew you couldn't Harry," and Malfoy rolled his eyes and drawled, "If you can't even torture a house elf, how did you think you could torture me?"

Harry grinned, feeling a bit weak with relief himself. "That's different," he told Malfoy, "no Malfoy had ever been my friend."

Malfoy recoiled for a second and Harry had the surreal thought that he'd hurt Malfoy's feelings. The feeling passed; if Malfoy had been hurt he gave no sign of it when he drawled, "Well, this is all very touching, but how do you propose to find out about the locket now?"

A grim silence descended on them. Well, apart from Malfoy who apparently had decided he wanted another cup of coffee, and of course Kreacher went on muttering maliciously to himself.

A minute or so passed before anyone spoke. Unsurprisingly it was Hermione who broke the silence, "I have an idea," Harry and Ron exchanged relieved looks, good old Hermione, "but you're not going to like it, Harry."

Harry's feeling of relief evaporated like morning dew. "What are you going to do?" he began apprehensively.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, her big brown eyes soft and worried. She took the locket off Harry, but didn't explain. Harry wondered whether he should protest and demand she explained herself, but Ron caught his eye and mouthed "Leave her to it". Harry shrugged, but decided to trust Hermione.

Hermione knelt down next to Kreacher, "Kreacher, it's very important that you tell us all you know about this locket," she said gently.

Kreacher froze, batlike ears pointing backwards like a dog hearing an unpleasantly pitched noise. "The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher! Filthy, disgusting…"

Hermione paled, the look of hurt that always accompanied the Mudblood insult crossing her face briefly before she composed herself. "Listen, you cared about Regulus, didn't you Kreacher?" she asked desperately, "Well, we're on Regulus' side, we're going to kill the ones who killed him. Don't you want that?"

The house elf peered up at her suspiciously, "Can't trust Mudbloods, all filthy liars, not even proper wizards…"

Harry's hand tightened on his wand, and he saw Ron's face turn a brilliant shade of red. Even Hermione flushed slightly, and her eyes narrowed in anger. There was an awkward moment when no one knew what to do, then Hermione seemed to remember the locket, "Kreacher, would you like this?"

A scream of protest rose up in Harry's throat, but he choked it down, remembering to trust Hermione. It was hard though, to watch the locket Albus Dumbledore had died for being passed willingly over to a cowering house elf. Kreacher took it, a look of revolting happiness covering his face, "This is for Kreacher to keep?"

"Yes," Hermione said anxiously, "but you must tell us where the other locket is, please, Kreacher."

At the mention of the Horcrux locket Kreacher's expression changed to something dark and furtive and sly, "Kreacher promised Kreacher wouldn't say, promised Kreacher'd not give it to anyone, but you was throwing everything out, and that thief was stealing all Mistress' precious things, and Kreacher couldn't let that happen, so Kreacher thought he'd give it to the young Miss Black, not that she's called that anymore, but –"

"Wait," Harry interrupted, feeling sick, "you gave the locket to Bellatrix?" He and Ron and Hermione all exchanged identical horror-struck looks. Malfoy looked suddenly thoughtful.

"Might as well have gift-wrapped it and given it to the Dark Lord," groaned Ron.

"No," it was Kreacher, still muttering, "not Miss Bellatrix, wonderful Miss though she is, making Kreacher iron his ears and boil his nose, not her, she works for the Dark Lord who killed poor Master Regulus, and not Miss Andromeda either, filthy blood traitor that she is, dirty Muggle-lover," his long, bony fingers caressed the locket lovingly, "no, why, I gave it to Miss Narcissa of course."


End file.
